A Million Little Pieces
by marapozsa
Summary: There is always someone whose story lies untold.


**A Million Little Pieces**

a c a n t **h a** - c h _a n_

**Authoress' Note & Disclaimer:** This is a little set of drabbles, centered around some of the more "minimal" characters featured in the three different series. Please keep in mind I've only read the Quest and Shadowlands books; if I really have read the Deltora Dragons series like I think I might have in the past, I don't recollect much from it. If faced with a set of circumstances where these drabbles would be made invalid, this'll most likely be made AU, so tell me, okay? No, I don't own Deltora Quest - that's Emily Rodda, and how can you mix up **Acantha-chan** with **Emily Rodda**? It's just not done.

Anyway, read on before I go into full rant mode, m'kay? I hope you enjoy; and by the way, the quotation in italics is from the book A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, quoted from some other source that I don't know. It might have been The Young Man and the Sea, or something, though...

Furthermore, Marilin isn't one of my favorite characters - as you can garner from her tidbit in these drabbles of mine.

---

_"The Young Man came to the Old Man seeking counsel._

_I broke something badly, Old Man._

_How badly is it broken?_

_It's in a million little pieces."_

---

Fardeep of Rithmere was indeed a shadow of his former self.

He'd allowed animosities to gather inside himself: crowding places where once virtue and heady youth flourished, prominent among them mocking visages of the only emotions he still felt nowadays.

Their names were self-explanatory; and ironically, none of them named for the corrupt emotion they signified.

The cause of all of this was that little voice in his head - that whispering, completely obnoxious little murmur that continued to feed the monsters inside his heart until they swelled large with greed. He knew it was certainly not his voice, his conscience, but not because he did not, in fact, have one - which was also true.

No, the voice was female, and he knew it to be someone else's entirely.

---

Dain was a liar, and he knew it. He was reminded of such things every time he took even one step in the direction of Tora - his Master's best creation, his best-concealed plan that would (one day) be all the Shadow Lord would have to go on. Being told things like that made him egotistical and arrogant: reveling each night in the fact that the Master might actually one day depend on him - Dain, a petty little amateur Ol compared to his other Grade III counterparts!

But he had let down his guard and now he was dying at the hand of a Del pauper who fancied the prospect of being a hero. A fool's end; and what a fool he had been!

All because he was stubborn, petty and vain.

When he was told that he would live forever, he never stopped to consider that it might be the biggest lie out of any that he had ever been told.

In memory of his once-innocent self, he would have perhaps thought to pray, or cry to the heavens for help. The only problem with that newfound belief was that there was no such thing as God and Dain knew that better than anyone else.

---

Jarred was a natural at hiding in the shadows. He was taught to be inconspicuous, ready to strike at an instant, and aware of his surroundings.

He was taught how to become invisible and he had used that skill all too well in the past; when it was truly needed and he had had none of this idle foolishness, this constant lazing about. Vigilant and venomous.

Vipers rarely do well in cages and Jarred was no exception.

His secrets, rarely discharged to others, melted in the hands of others, were no longer secrets in the hands of others, so he kept his secrets secret because he enjoyed what solitude and reprieve those secrets could offer.

In a time of abysmal darkness, he'd guarded himself too well - the habit was tiresome, yes, but it served him well.

---

Sharn was no fool; rather, she chose to better herself in many areas, an intelligent keen beauty whose perfection was only surpassed by the imperfection and hardships dwelling right beneath the surface. She was not a painted palace doll, but a proud gem of Tora, one who was admired by one and all - a woman to whom other women could point to and then tell their daughters, sisters, mothers, nieces, aunts, servants...

And then tell them all, "That is the Lady of Tora...The mother of our Deltoran King, King Lief, who bears the Belt and a thousand godly gifts upon his shoulders. Fear not her elegance, benevolence, regality, stature. She is a Lady of Honour, of Her Word, and of our own city of Tora. There will never be one such as her ever again in the history of Deltora, neither far beyond the Silver Sea nor past the Once-Land of Pirra above us."

The Queen Mother, they call her now, or sometimes (in affection, but still reminding her that she is only a shadow of her former self, proud and doughty before a court of extorting aristocrats), the King Mother, having given birth to Lief. Even Anna of the Forge was among her titles, but it was rarely used.

Sharn did not enjoy being reminded of dark times past; nor of now dead folk that haunted her every step.

---

Jinks lies to protect his secrets - same as Doom, except he does not shield his secrets behind a bulwark made of wrought steel and stony expressions. Rather, he enjoys a far more amusing, resilient existence, one far more suited to one such as him. After all, there would be far too many secrets in this world if everyone chose to be like Doom. Doom...Doom was, well, Doom.

Jinks, well...Hell, even Jinks wasn't sure what he was.

He only knew that even now, clutching a token from a once-dead man to a pretty palace churl, he still didn't have a reason to even exist. His theft was not only that of material things but also of spiritual manifestations. Ghosts, specters, ghouls - he'd seem them all, and hidden his fear behind a whirlwind of laughter that swept nightmares clean out of the air.

He tried to laugh as he fell to the ground, to see if the pain behind his eyes and in his throat would ease.

The last thing he saw was a spectral image, a man with no eyes and no mouth and no voice, doomed to forever haunt those of jester's profession - theft, theft, and even more theft.

---

Marilin was the painted pretty gutter-churl Sharn had never wanted to be - pristine, beautiful, educated and refined. Ranesh admired her only because she was a maiden of domestic origin that found her way from the hollow existence of a slave in Rithmere to the far more glorious life of an adopted daughter in a fine city, because he cared more for treasure than he did for her and only cared to part with what she could give him like any other piece of gutter trash, a whore whose only gift was one she could only give once.

To only one man, the same she'd given her heart to. He had stolen both, and with it all her potential in life as well.

She didn't enjoy envisioning herself as such, as she had for so many desolate years in the midst of the Valley of the Dead, but the Cinderella facade could only last for so long before it came to the unmasking of the mystery masquerade guest.

Only, instead of unmasking a beautiful maiden, they had gotten a tempered spitfire, a desert pauper in the midst of a vast ocean.

---

_"I'm afraid I can't help you._

_Why?_

_There's nothing you can do._

_Why?_

_It can't be fixed._

_Why?_

_It's broken beyond repair. It's in a million little pieces."_


End file.
